“Also, I’ll round up four or five of our best known designers and have them issue statements of support, contradicting what he’s said and emphasizing their commitment to Hudson’s and the Popup Palooza. Finally, I’ll personally call half a dozen of our most sympathetic press contacts and make sure that when they cover this, they mention Akiri’s well-known diva tendencies. He’s been rude enough to the press that they’ll be sympathetic to us.”
“Excellent, sir.” Henry nods with approval. Then he gives me a once-over, with just the faintest hint of lift to his right eyebrow. Yes, I’m standing there in my boxers. “I’ll select a suit for you,” he says. “Will you be dressing before or after your phone calls?”
“After. I’m going to my office right now. This is an emergency.”
“I will lay your suit out on your bed, and when you’re suitably attired I’ll meet you in the dining room with coffee and we can resume strategizing.”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve made all my calls and I’m dressed. Henry’s laid out a suit, accessorizing it with a plaid tie with ochre accents and an ochre pocket square. I didn’t even know I owned any plaid ties – it’s not a pattern I enjoy wearing, and ochre is my least favorite color. Henry knows all this, of course, which means he’s annoyed at me. It’s probably a comment on today’s self-sabotaging idiocy.
Sometimes I just wish he’d say, “Up yours, you jackass.” Of course, if he did I’d probably drop dead of shock.
Irritated, I fetch a different tie and pocket square. While I’m dressing, I rack my brain to think who I could enlist to replace Akiri.
There’s a hot new designer in France, very avant-garde and just starting to capture a lot of attention, who might possibly be persuaded to participate. She’d fill the hole that I was trying to fill with Akiri, providing a fresh, unique look that will appeal to the younger crowd. She’s not as famous as he is, yet, but I actually like her designs better than his.
She’s also got a lot of people wooing her. I need to talk to her in person.
I hurry to find Henry, who is in the kitchen, making an omelet for me. He glances at my tie. “My selection was not to your taste, sir?”
“You know I hate ochre. And plaid. If you’re annoyed with me for snapping at you and being a self-sabotaging idiot, don’t commit acts of sartorial vandalism, just say so.”
“So,” he says drily, and returns his attention to the omelet.
“Thank you. I apologize for snapping at you in the hallway, and for being a screwup today, and for whatever screws I may up in the future. Also, how do you like French food?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Winona
I run my fingers along the rack of clothing that’s just been delivered to my front door. There are easily two dozen outfits, each one more gorgeous than the last. Dresses, blouses, pantsuits, skirts, blazers. Every one of them perfectly suited for me – bright, colorful, with interesting patterns and a mix of fabrics that should clash but somehow just work.
The note that came with them is written in a curly, beautiful cursive. “Since you’re working for Hudson’s, you should dress as if you’re working for Hudson’s.”
“Xena, no!” I say, as our canine all-purpose shredding machine seizes the leg of a pair of silk pants in her mouth. I kneel down and gently pry the pants from her fangs. She lets out a groan of disappointment and flops down on the ground.
I scratch her behind her ear, frowning. I still don’t have a place for her to stay, and I don’t have much time left. I’ve hit up every person I know in the neighborhood. Isabella’s asked at the hospital, without success. I’ve put the word out at Hudson’s, but I had to be honest about her chewing tendencies. So that was a no.
A loud banging on the door makes me jump.
“Let us in!” Isabella calls out.
Us? Oh, horse pucky.
I hurry to the door and peer through the eyehole. Isabella is standing there in her scrubs. Of course this would happen right as she gets home from her shift. Clarita and Edna are crowded around her. What did they do, teleport? The clothes were delivered maybe five minutes ago.
I open the door and glower at them. “Really?”
They bustle past me into the apartment. Clarita wheels expertly over the doorstep. “Ariel can’t make it because she lives across town,” she informs me.